


He Ain't Heavy

by FishEyenoMiko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishEyenoMiko/pseuds/FishEyenoMiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Sherlock's attempt to make himself feel better backfires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Ain't Heavy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features discussions of miscarriages and a piece of art that depicts cannibalism.

Mycroft Holmes was headed to his room when he heard crying coming from the bathroom in the hall. Moving closer, he could tell it was Sherlock. This puzzled Mycroft; Sherlock never cried. He would lash out, or scream, or just shut down completely, but he didn't _cry_. Walking up, he saw that the door was ajar. He looked through the crack to see his brother holding one of the blades from Mycroft's razor. It took the older boy a second to register what his brother was about to do. Pushing the door open the rest of the way, Mycroft entered the room. Sherlock looked up, and, upon seeing his bother, quickly backed away. Mycroft was faster, though, grabbing his brother's hand. He felt the blade slice into his hand, but decided it was worth it to stop Sherlock from doing what he was about to do

"Let go!" the younger boy shouted, fighting to get away. 

"No," Mycroft replied, trying to stay calm. Keeping a grip on his brother was easy enough. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Sherlock?"

"Leave me alone! Let go!" Sherlock's resistance was already wearing down, though, and he stopped pulling away. Mycroft took the razor out Sherlock's hand, tossing it in the sink for the time being. As he did, Sherlock crumpled to the ground, and just started sobbing. Kneeling on the cold, hard tile, Mycroft hugged his little brother.

"Sherlock," he said softly. The boy sat stiff and resistant in his grasp for a moment, then finally put his head on Mycroft's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him.

 

Sherlock stood by the sink, the warm, damp flannel held tightly over his face.

"You know, you're not going to be able to smother yourself to death," Mycroft informed him. On any other day, it might have been just a joke. "You'll just pass out and the flannel will fall off." With that, Sherlock pulled the cloth away and handed it back to Mycroft. He turned on the tap, getting it wet again, making sure it wasn't too hot (he checked himself since he didn't trust Sherlock to tell him if it was). Squeezing out the excess water, he handed it back to his brother, who used it to wipe his face. He was red and blotchy from where he'd been crying (Mycroft believed that was part of the reason he didn't--it made him look awful), and his hair was even curlier than normal from the steam of the hot water. For his own part, Mycroft's hand wasn't as bad as he thought, and a simple bandage had sufficed. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"Nothing," the boy lied.

Mycroft sighed. "Don't do that. It's just insulting to both of us."

After a moment of silence, Sherlock shrugged. "I took one of the tablets Daddy has. They make him feel better."

"Oh, God..."

"Oh shut up! It's easy for you, you're normal! I... I just wanted to be happy like daddy is when he takes them..."

Mycroft rewetted the flannel for Sherlock, who folded it up and just covered his eyes with it. "Sherlock, that's a prescription medication; do you know what that means? It means no one's supposed to take them but the person they were prescribed to."

"But they help Daddy," Sherlock protested.

"Yes, but... look, some medications are made special, and they effect different people in different ways. That's why no one else should take them, ok?" Sherlock just nodded. "Ok, good. Are you feeling all right, Sherlock? Physically, I mean; do you feel sore or have a headache or anything?"

"I feel a bit nauseous." 

"Do you need to be sick?" Sherlock shook his head, tossing the flannel into the sink. Mycroft rinsed it out and hung it up. "Do you still feel...?"

"Like I wanna die? Kinda."

Mycroft nodded. "You said you only took one, right?" 

"Yeah."

"Hopefully, Father wasn't keeping too close track, or he'll think he just dropped one..."

"You won't tell him?"

"No, of course not. But you _can't_ do this again, Sherlock, all right?"

The boy made a face. "Trust me I won't... I hate feeling like this." His head was leaning a bit to the side; along the redness, he had bags under his eyes.

"Good. I mean... you know what I mean." He looked at his little brother. "You're tired. Wanna take a nap?"

Sherlock nodded, and headed out to his bedroom. Mycroft followed.

 

Sherlock walked over to his bed, plopping inelegantly unto it. Mycroft went over to the wardrobe, which was against the wall at the end of the bed; Sherlock's chest of drawers was built into it. 

"You'll be more comfortable in pyjamas," he said as he opened the door. He jumped at the image he came face-to-face with; a crazed man, holding the remains of a human body he was in the process of eating. "Oh, God," said Mycroft as he calmed down, recognising the famous image from an art class he'd once had. "That's... wow..."

"I got it out of an art book Mother gave me," Sherlock explained. 

Mycroft stepped back and saw that there were a few other images taped to the door; all of them featuring some sort of violence or grotesquery. Shaking his head, Mycroft opened the other door and saw more of the same. He sighed and got out some pyjamas for his brother. 

When Mycroft started to close the wardrobe, Sherlock called out, "Don't; I wanna look at them!" It was clear he'd put them there so he could see him from his bed. 

Mycroft considered protesting, but realised that Sherlock had probably looked at them many times before; telling him he shouldn't now would just be silly. So Mycroft left the doors open and walked over to his brother's bed. Sherlock lay there listlessly.

"Want me to help you change?" Sherlock was old enough to dress himself, of course, but Mycroft suspected he wasn't feeling up to doing much of anything right now. Indeed, Sherlock nodded, sitting up and holding his arms up like a toddler waiting for his mummy to dress him. Smiling, Mycroft helped his little brother into his night clothes, folding his other clothes and putting them on the top of the chest of drawers. Sherlock went back to lying on his side, his half-closed eyes focusing on the art work. Mycroft sat behind him on the bed, gently brushing his fingers through his brother's long, dark curls. 

"You see that picture?" Sherlock pointed to an image of a naked woman lying on a bed, surrounded by several items, including a fetus and pelvic bones. "The woman who painted it couldn't have kids... they call it a 'miscarriage'," the boy explained.

"I know," Mycroft replied. He knew the direction this was going, and decided to try and head it off. "Trust me, Sherlock, Mother is very glad she had you. Given Father's... problems, she knew it was a risk, and had you--both of us--anyway."

"I wish she hadn't."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, still stroking his hair. "You know this is the medication talking, right? You'll feel better when it works out of your system."

"No, I won't. There's something wrong with my brain."

"No, there's not," Mycroft replied. He was probably wrong, but he hoped it would make Sherlock feel better.

Sherlock rolled partially over, glaring at him. "Don't do that. It's just insulting to both of us."

"You're right... I'm sorry." Sherlock started to roll back over. "Sherlock," Mycroft said, moving back, "why don't you roll over? I'm not sure looking at those particular images is a good idea in your current frame of mind." 

While the art on the other wardrobe door wasn't any more pleasant, at least it didn't feature a woman mourning her lost child, or a man eating his own son. To Mycroft's relief, his brother complied, and Mycroft walked over to the other side of the bed, again sitting at his bother's back. 

"You're right, Sherlock, you do have something wrong with your brain. But it's never this bad; you've never been suicidal before. So even if you won't feel... wonderful, you'll still feel _better_."

"I suppose. Do you think I'll have to take medication when I'm dad's age?"

"Maybe," Mycroft started, but then thought about it some more. "Though, really, I don't think your depression as at bad as dad's is. You mostly see him when he's on the medication, but when he's not, it's awful. And, hey, maybe when you're an adult, they'll have a surgery that can go into your brain and fix it permanently."

"Stop being silly," Sherlock replied, sounding annoyed.

"I'm not being silly! I'm being... optimistic." 

Sherlock made an exaggerated gagging sound. 

"Oh, hush!" Mycroft laughed, regardless. He'd gone back to brushing Sherlock's hair, and he could feel the boy relaxing. "Why don't you get some sleep, Sherlock."

"Ok."

With that, Sherlock yawned and stretched, and soon fell asleep. As he looked down at his little brother, Mycroft realised that taking care of Sherlock would be a lifetime commitment--one he was more than willing to make.

**Author's Note:**

> Some anti-depressants created for adults can cause suicidal thoughts in children and young adults; this is what has happened to Sherlock at the beginning of the story.
> 
> The two art pieces described are:  
> Francisco Goya's [_Saturn Devouring His Son_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_Devouring_His_Son)  
>  and  
> Frida Kahlo's [_Henry Ford Hospital, 1932_](http://arthistory.about.com/od/from_exhibitions/ig/frida_kahlo/fk200708_03.htm)  
>  Both of these images are fairly graphic; discretion is advised.


End file.
